The black wolf of the Green Fields
by coreyjotunn
Summary: Wulfhart was a Rohirrim of Rohan, but the darkness to the bright light of his fellow Eored, and he fought for the love of killing, not for the reasons they did. Until he found a new light outside the walls of Gondor, where the blood of men mingled with the blood of Orcs in the dirt.


"Wulfhart! Wulfhart!"

He grumbled in his sleep, burying his head deeper into straw and his thin blanket that doubled as a cloak most days. He couldn't tell if it was his mother or his little sister yelling, but he knew it was too early for him to be awake. He heard the scream again. He perked his head up, wearily blinking sleep from his eyes. Aethelflaed sounded... she sounded scared. Probably was playing in the barn again, and had seen a snake, or even a spider, and didn't want to touch it. Now he had to go be the hero and move it for her. Aethelflaed didn't have to do things like sully her hands with getting rid of the things on her own. Their mother had _high plans_ for Aethelflaed. Wulfhart snorted in disgust as he pulled on his shirt and opened the door to go outside.

The farm was burning. He had never seen anything like it. The barn was already gone, the thatch roof like so much tinder. He could hear the horses screaming from the corral, and he took off like the lightning to free them. He didn't know what was happening, he didn't care. He was going to free his fathers horses. There were shapes in the darkness, wiry, hairy shapes that looked like demons, with torches and weapons. He dodged the ones that seemed to be jerking for him from the shadows, until he finally reached the fenced in area where they kept the horses. They were still there, their nostrils wide and flaring from the smell of smoke and something he couldn't place in the air. It reminded him of when they slaughtered hogs in the winter time. He feverishly jerked on the knots that held the gate on, before remembering that he had his knife on him. He jerked the sharp saex out of the sheath and sawed through the ropes.

As soon as he parted the last strand, he threw the gate open wide, shouting to the horses as they ran out. He watched them go, then went to find his little sister. Aethelflaed had to be around here somewhere! He had heard her screaming. He dodged through the shadows and struggling shapes. His little village was being torn apart by whatever was going on. Everything was burning! The houses, the barns! He could hear more horses screaming, women he had known his whole life screaming. He saw men on the ground, like Hrothdred the butcher, their eyes lifeless and staring up at the sky. He ran, the dew wet grass making his bare feet freeze as he searched for his sister. The dark shapes were running away, women and girls on their shoulders as they disappeared into the night. It had to be the Wild Men. Only they would come and steal women away in the night like this.

"WULFHART!"

He turned, and could see her! One of the men had grabbed her and was trying to drag her off. Wulfhart felt a fierce pride in how hard his spoiled little sister was fighting the man trying to take her. He ran as fast as he could, trying to reach her. A club came out of nowhere and smacked Wulfhart in the head, flipping him over backwards. He grunted, trying to scramble around and find his saex. The one that had hit him called to the one trying to grab Aethelflaed, the tone of his voice mocking. Blackness was fluttering at the edge of Wulfhart's vision, and he could feel the blood running down his face from where he had been hit. He tried to grab the Dunlending by his ankle, trying to fight. He had to save Aethelflaed. The man shook his off, and almost casually hit Wulfhart in the face with the club again. The darkness flitted in and out, bright splotches of light and consciousness coming across his eyes.

They were walking away with his little sister, and he could hear snatches of her screaming for him to help. He tried to reach out for her, tried to grab her hand, but she was so far away. And it was getting so dark.

"Aethe... I'm comin' for you..."

"WULF-" She was hit or gagged, either one, and he gave himself up to the darkness as he watched them take her away.

* * *

Wulfhart awoke with a half-roar, his saex bared in his hand and his teeth bared in a snarl. Other Riders in the tent were either waking up and looking around, or the ones that had served with him longest that were groaning and trying to find something to throw at him. He flushed with embarrassment, getting up and grabbing a shirt as he sheathed the big knife and stumbled out of the large barracks tent. He hadn't had the nightmare in years. Not since before they had found the Dunlendings that had taken Aethelflaed, not since he had found out what had happened to his sister. They had made her the slave to some Dunlending chieftain, one of the groups that had traveled far away. He had no chance to ever find his sister. He shivered in cold of the night air. He could see his leader ahead, looking out over the encampment. Helm's Deep had been a battle and a half, but Erkenbrand had lead them to help their king. Theoden Ednew. He was going to lead the Eorlingas to Gondor, to fight. Erkenbrand was staying, to guard the people of Rohan while the King and all Riders that were available could go to the aid of their ancient allies.

"Sneaking up on your captain, eh Black Wolf?"

Wulfhart smirked, grabbing the pot of caffee and two cups from a close by fire. He poured it, handing it over the Erkenbrand before stepping up beside him. His voice was gravelly due to an old battle injury, but he was still easy to understand.

"You know I would never."

"Just because you can't."

The two men laughed, drinking the steaming liquid in the quiet dark. Wulfhart wanted to ask Erkenbrand the answer to the question he had asked earlier, but did not want to press his Captain. But he wanted his permission. Erkenbrand was his Captain, and he was a member of the Westfold Garrison, but he could not stay to defend the people of Rohan. He had to go with the host, to make his fight in Gondor. Wulfhart was a man that searched for his death, and he would not find it protecting the women and children here. Everyone seemed to think that the wild men that had escaped and the wild orcs from the mountains would attack. Maybe the Wild Men, but he knew that the orcs would heed to their Masters call for battle. And Wulfhart would fight that horde. He would just prefer to do it without abandoning his Captain and his people.

The men had joked when they heard he wanted to leave with the army. They had been tasked, the surviving members of Erkenbrand's garrison, to guard the Mark. The most important job to them, many of which were family men. They had wives, children, brothers, sisters, parents. Wulfhart had none of that, so he had wanted to go and fight more. To take the fight to whomever he would be pointed at. For King, for country, but more importantly... for himself. To sate the dark lust for battle and blood that lived inside his breast, ever since that dark night many years ago.

Erkenbrand had once joked that Wulfhart was Rohan's 'hound of war'. He had never said no to the title. War was his destiny, was in his blood, in his bones. He fought, and therefore he found purpose. If Rohan had never needed a warrior to defend its borders from orcs and wild men, he would have left it's green fields long ago and found his calling elsewhere. He was strange enough, with his black hair and dark eyes, compared to his blonde and light brethren. But that was neither here nor there. He was a Rohirrim, and they needed warriors. His people needed him, even if he was ostracized by them. But now, he felt his people needed him elsewhere. Far across plain and dale, in another land, where many men of Rohan had fought and died before.

"I have gave my thoughts to it Wulfhart." Erkenbrand sighed heavily, sipping caffe before saying anything more. "You want to go with the army." He turned to look at the warrior who had fought in the Westfold since the day he earned his cloak, who Erkenbrand had shared many a drink with in taverns, had watched train horses with a different talent than most of his people. But he knew Wulfhart, almost better than he knew himself. "You will go if I will it or not. You want to sake that thirst inside of you." His eyes peered into Wulf's, and the other man stared back into them. Erkenbrand could almost swear at times that Wulf's green eyes were more yellow than green, more animal than man. "You never tire of battle, and you would never forgive me from keeping you from this one."

Erkenbrand stuck out his hand, and Wulfhart gripped it steadily, their hands clasped around each others forearms. Wulfhart struggled to keep the feral grin of happiness off of his face. To war, to battle, to kill and to cheat death once again. They released hands, and he turned on his heel, to prepare his gear and to ready his horse. He would fight with the king, he would fight for Gondor. And he may die this time, and then he could go to the Halls of his Fathers, and look for his mother. For his sister. For the brothers that had died since. For the father that was no more than a dark memory and a scent that tickled his nose sometimes.

The new Marshal of the Westfold sighed, sipping his caffe as he watched the man walk away, dark thoughts visible on his face as his war shroud surrounded him. Most of the Rohirrim went into battle with a song on their lips and laughter in their hearts, but not Wulf. He went into battle grim faced, eyes sparking with the want to kill, and the only laughter on his lips the one reserved for cheating death. The grizzled Rohirrim sighed again, pouring the rest of his cup out, and looking to the stars.

"Bema, watch over him. He is one of your people. Let him come back to us alive, and heal him, if you can."


End file.
